Isambard Netherwisp

Isambard Netherwisp

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Thrice quick as bamboo had it risen and grown from the ground, resolutely uprising from the stones of the well in fierce protrusions of barbs and thicket. Black wood that did resist the chopping axe, ichorous to the water that had forced the disquieted peoples to slake their thirst elsewhere. Local physicians had confirmed - the water had been corrupted and had caused inexplicable gangrene in those who had supped upon it before the plantlife had risen in such contemptuous surges. A simple town of simple exports,a place known as Ivymount, a village between places and a home to many retired with spreadful gossip, host to plain faced people more familiar with flour than of foulness, was now beholden to such a choking lifeform.

Fear did spread as a choking cloud about them.

And in knowing this fear, did these people pick up the burning torch in fearful initative, and wish this plant life burned with oils thrown liberally against it. The town square was theirs, they said.

From the flames erupting did it gain new contempt and vigours, and were troubles expounded further. Screams did rise as this manifestation did shudder with new hates and made claim with invasive outreaching vine. The throat of the well did give rise more of the thorns, and thus baptised by the flames, did gain a willfulness that set the peoples to shy and withdraw to the corners.

The town square was a fertile place to thrive, this plantlife seemed to state with each new horror displayed.

Like a like caltrop did this thing resemble thwarting, like a willful blot did it spread up and out from the well. When the eyes was not fixed upon it, it seemed to bramble about itself. When eyes did fix upon it, it seemed to leer and promise torment. The small village had clamoured for aid in quick sending message from bird and in servant of the land, so troubled by the sound of it creaking upwards. The small village had taken to shelter in the outskirts, for this black towering mass of sharp vine and bark had lashed out to those who did assess. And exponentially did it grow in confidence and cruelty.

By the time the first folk had arrived to provide aid, expertise and remedy, it had risen tall and defiant, and jade eyes did glimmer in the surface of it's limbs that did creak with nestled aggressions and growth bursts. Above the roofs of homes and establishments could it's claws be seen reaching. Creaking upwards, it now resembled a barbed banner, fed by what waters the well drew upon, powered by some necrotic domain of the Dark Arts that dwelled within.

The call had been made by decree by village elder made desperate. Whoever had courage to uproot this malevolent growth would be rewarded with six month wage of the guards who could not deliver pike against it.

The brave and knowing to thwart this rising nuisance and corruption had been gathering, determined by message various and plea universal to meet within the village itself to draw up action against this manifestation. Some had been given their accommodation and down payment of their promised deeds. Some had already attempted reckless action, and were injured and some dispatched in shrieking punctures of blackened thorn, dragged into the well in cracks of hungry bark.

Muscle and steel, weaver and will, the parties had coalesced by virtue of need and desire for pay. The fearful residents did speak from behind shuttered windows to those who did visit, informing them things had grown worse, telling them that the others gathered. Gathered interests did form camps on how to solve this issue, each vying for the prize of six month's wages, each watching the approach of others fail, and wagering their own solutions.

To the north, a Necroseer, studious and patient, peered down open cobblestreet, ruby eyes narrowing to the nature of this plague of thorns from it's well home. He had not attracted nearly as great a series of companions as others, only one for now. His grey horse, tied up near tavern now long vacant. A near blind thing that seemed far too calm for such proximity of the problem. Isambard's warnings that this Thorned Horror was growing exponentially had evacuated the pub.

A message had not long been sent via whispered people and hirelings quickly made by purse plentiful of the Necroseer Isambard, the odd minor precious jewel paid to assure some temporary loyalties in messengers and heralds of his plans.

'Meet at the pub, 'The Stout Otter,' if you wish to earn more and do this correctly.'

Presently, a rival group with numerous axes and spells of scorching were to the south amassed their hodgepodge plan in haste and in earnest. The day was turning to night, and much growth was ahead of this horror in such darkness.

With baleful eye did the Necroseer Isambard stare at them down the street, as if he might dissuade them more than the thicket that grew steady with loud snaps and cracks as it thrived on the corpses already created by such quick rushes.

Isambard Netherwisp awaited some hint of assistance as those to the south did build up their courage to cause more problems, arms folded, eyes glaring, his mind thinking of what dark laboratory this manifestation had birthed this uncommon infestation of well rooted horror.
 
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When there had become rumors about a strange plant that resisted weapons and poisoned the very water, the Knights had sent a pair of representatives. One from the Dawn and one from the Dusk. Arriving at the small town of Ivymount, Effie and her dawn companion stood around the outside of the town square watching those gathered to attack the plant that had clearly flourished since the original rumors were heard. The knight of the dusk with her shroud sight could see the great expanse of the plant as it threaded across rooftops and down walls. The massive plant felt more like an entity, a creature that had grown to ridiculous proportions.

The shroud with in it seemed heavy, tainted. The glow still there, but somehow ... dark. "If it could be cut down with axes, swords, and fire, then the reward wouldn't have been posted as it was." Said the dawn knight at a mumble that Effie could hear but wouldn't carry to anyone but her.

"They're going to end up hurt, or worse dead." She agreed. With her sensitive senses, she could smell the old tangy copper smell that lingered in the air. A testament to the lives already lost to the bramble. She turned her head away because she didn't want to look, only for her eyes to catch on the glow of a figure further up the hill. Just a bit to far to distinguish more than it being of someone with strong shroud connections.

"Follow me." She said to her companion as she moved back down the street away from the mass of vines and people. It took her a longer than she might have liked to pick her way through the unknown streets of the town, but her companion was patient leading the horses along behind. Finally, they made it to the northern end of town where sure enough a figure awaited.

"Friend or Foe?" asked her companion, the glow of his form showing the tension in his shoulders as they both awaited an answer.
 
"Foe of this manifestation, friend to those who care to tread bold against this malady with some willingness to be smart about it," Isambard did say, his jaw quick snapping, his arms unfolding as his gaze did regard the distance a little longer. As if a few moments further scowling might glean the means to victory in from the thicket that roamed and fed snappish on the foolish.

Isambard regarded the plate and found it satisfactory to his ends. His pale fingers did wrap themselves around trinket of silver for small assurances and balance in his perspective, wrought precious metal that did wrap around powders of finer arcane sensitivities. The shoulders were still rigid, the tension akin to a coiled thing of viciousness, yet the words were snapped out in quick efficient spates, more scornful about the foolishness across the way than assistance treading close.

"Ah, knights is it. Well shod in armours, let's see if there's wits within. A sample is needed if this manifestation be undone, yet most variants of this bitter root resist the shearing weapon. Feeds on fires, quick offered in fear. I need a sample if it is to be uprooted true, the fools down the road mean to prickle it with their pikes and impale their valiant idiot souls in the process. It's far too stubborn for that. It's defeat must be encouraged."

Some further groaning snapping in the distance, as if the roofs that were cradled by the vine and root did grow further latticed with the hateful thing. Bearded folk did stroke their fur and did muster what courage did go this way or that as weapons were lumbered with cold muscle. Paymasters did pass out writs of moneys should deeds be performed. Numbers without meaning to a death quick looming, the roofs did muster their thickets of hates for such usury of lives to be quickly snuffed, the thorns sliding about themselves as snakes. The sound did much to perturb and forestalled the fatal courage.

Isambard continued his address to current help, his eyes appraising, his voice speaking with calm urgencies that was entrenched in wisdoms about the matter, entrenched in authorities that cared not for the imbound loss of life from those bought and sold by bold promises. His concern was to the situation of the town, not the attrition of sells words in their foolish strains to die rapid and rudderless.

"With some slither of it's bark, or fragment of the barb, I might discern true the way to uproot it with my craft. Much mutation is their nature, a standard rot I have in mind must be adjusted by my hand. Those who readying to make bold of their lives refuse to listen to the alchemical solutions I am trained in. I am Isambard Netherwisp, Necroseer. Names if you please, and specialities. I have need to use what you are to aid end this sinister root. I assume you are fit for some task. We might take advantage of the next surge of sacrifices if we're well attuned."
 
The Dusker listened as the Necroseer spoke, an annoyance in lingering in his words as he gazed down at the gathered group that was readying themselves to attack. Effie's sightless eyes looked down the hill toward the monstrous vine that was slowly consuming the town. If they didn't stop it soon, there wouldn't be much of the town left and just how large would it get before it outgrew this space and tried to find something new to consume. She didn't even want to think what it might look like for this thorny horror to try and disperse to a new location. She couldn't imagine the animal life surviving what might have been a normal process, had it been a normal plant.

Her face turned back toward the man at his request. How does one get a piece of a plant that seemed immune to sharp surfaces and fire. What might have been her first two options when trying to harvest a bit of a plant. "Syr Martell, Sword and Shroud." She doubted such things like the pursuit of Loch and Death would have any meaning in they way they did to the other Knights of the Order. "Specifically, skilled in aspects of the mind."

She wasn't sure how much that would come in handy here and she was still just beginning to learn about those skills that fell into the pursuit of death. They might even come in handy in this situation, it certainly seemed like Netherwisp had the idea of using rot to remove the invasive species.

"I am Syr Barton, skilled in the bow and the ways of nature." The Dawn Knight said introducing himself.

"I wonder if you have an idea on how we might obtain a sampling of a plant that seems immune to pruning." Effie had an idea, but one that she'd prefer not to have to use. She had a feeling there were a lot of dead entombed within the vines and if they could access a body, she had a feeling that they might find something usable there. She just hoped there was a better way. She didn't think the town would take to kindly to her animating a corpse, even if it could possibly lead to a solution for the complete removal.
 
Isambard's words were delivered in truncated calm, clear and concise to his thinking. The academic wax and wane was indulgence he knew. His words in this moment efficient, akin to the doctor providing assessment to the dying as tools did pass from orderly to table.

Bark did amass about roof tile and made plans to make traps for those readying their sallying surge as Isambard did speak. The sound of creaking a chorus of thorns. Isabard's words punctual and functional, as if delivering forecasts of death. In truth he was in part, if faith in the southern effort failing was to be trusted.

"Many ideas, few responsible and moral to the imperilled living standing. The aim is to extricate without total sacrifice. But misteps might be harvested."

No relish in this in his tone. Continuing on, his mind did fashion the two in possible ventures. He had asked for help and it had arrived. Plans quickly assembled. Quicker now his words, trusting his company being so clad in armours and professing of their arts could quick adapt to the premeditated.

A handful of tiles shuddered off roof tops from burgeoning thicket making comforts of position, pains amassed and waiting.

Halberds amassed in their bundles in tightening knuckle grips. Tempers were rising, the street becoming aglow with further flames to no doubt throw.

Isambard looked yonder down, words quick tapping to new company as if tattooing meaning on the skin of the present that was soon to turn to layer and leather.

"The valiant will taste the Sting if they, down there, spring forth. Such is their right to try. I cannot help the inevitables of the honest quick step zeal. But, if we must, we might use their last effort in less vain. But before such deeds resort us so, I have a method in mind. Flash freeze and fragment, segment and biopsy the manifestation. Exacting anti agent might be devised from this thing if ice rendered and sheared. I know not it's specific malice yet, it's heritage of hate. A sample shall reveal it's nature, and our alchemical solution. Within this tavern the means to render. I've assessed it so. But first, of frost? Might any of you have such means to make still and cold with magitech or reality made bold?"

The wind grew a shade more still and deadened, the flames gripped and hoisted flickered in movement of the feet not wind's touch. Some small sounds of rough patchwork armours adjusted, shafts of wood scraped and removed from floor resting as readying was made.

The thorns grew deathly still, the well thing waiting in it's lurking lair, rooftop extensions poised, baiting with the town made it's domain bold.

@Euphemia Martell
 
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The creaking and the groaning induced from the vines that squeezed at the village buildings echoed hauntingly in the background. Those about to brave the brambles were making their final preparations. She wished that they could prevent any other loss of life, but there was no way to come up with a solution that quickly.

Her attention drew back toward the Necroseer, her shoulders drooping a little. That sounded exactly like what she didn't want to do, but she knew that sometimes the loss was not preventable. At least they might be able to pull some good from it in the process, if the villagers would end up seeing it that way would be another question entirely.

Yet there seemed to be another bit of hope. Freezing. That did make sense. If it was immune to fire, then it would stand to reason that it might be weak to cold. "Do you have a way to freeze it? That lays beyond my skill." If it had a brain, a mind, then she might have been able to influence it into believing that it was frozen. However, it was a plant. It moved and interacted on instinct, and perhaps whatever evil that had mutated it.

"I can make frost." Barton answered. "Though it will not last long as it is not something that I have great skill in. You might have seconds at most."

Effie unclipped the guard on her sword. "I can get close enough to cut the piece off. If you can freeze it. Is there a specific piece that you need from the vine?" She wanted to make sure that she did this right so they wouldn't have to pull such a risky move again.
 
"Any part of it will serve that does lash out," Isambard did say, his head quick turning to the sound that did rise from afar.

The sound of courages culminating in a desperate charge, zeal sounding in the air convincing itself of it's weight in the measuring of things. Quick stepping boots with halberds that did assemble themselves, axes hefted from the burly that looked to the well as they made approach with want to hue for their cries.

"Take advantage, our moment will come," Isambard did command, his own hand assuring himself of wicked implement of sheering and cutting. The handle black and tight wrapped in tempered fabrics of twin linked profane and sanity assurances. Designed to hack the flesh and saw bone, his hand wrapped around the grip with his right hand, the left hand poised as shield before him, the wrist and palm ready to fend with what magics were his to fend with. To the sides of the buildings did he move elegant and clinging to shadows, no warcry upon his lips, just discernment in his eyes as he lead on.

The pit of the well lurked, and the tendrils that did amass in their draperies amassed their surges to violence.

The square of the town that yawned opened to meet the townspeople, the tendrils relinquishing their ground for a moment as if it were sensitive to their fierce sounds. Flames raised high from torches, weapons wide sweeping the air. Halberds cracked the stone as the tendrils slunk away, the bark with pointers that seemed more like feelers for some serpantine intelligence did wind back and dart in evasive shudderings. Axes struck in rare moments in chopping motion as the people did amass, the bark receiving such cuts as if it were more akin to a wet net of heavy rope. Some fraying, instead of the mighty lumbering that the people did hope for.

Isambard did turn a corner and waited, hand raised, a smooth voice instructing.

"Not yet," he did say soft, eyes looking for the vital moment. When the vines and bark would summon it's retort.

The square had four passageways, the northern approached by Isambard, the southern the peoples of the town did surge, the east and western roofs now amassing with thick thorned tendrils did shivered upwards, gaining heights and forming attempts at a building canopy. The snakes of roots did recoil upon the ground as it was yielded, yet the well lurked empty seeming as the height of the canopy grew.

Encouraged by the stone uncovering and the horror rescinding, yet leaderless in direction to their rabble effort, the people did lash out at what they could catch, a medley of ideas weakly thriving. More axe falls, torches and oil summoned as explosions of small fires were ignored, as if the illumination were mocked by it's lingering within it. Isambard did notice a vial of green ichor strike the thing, from hand unknown, acidity in it's bite that did gnaw and eat at the thorn, making still it's retreat.

But by this moment, the canopy did surge northward in a terrible barrage. Creaking as if a small forest were collapsing upon themselves as if jointed, felled in numerous part by itself to do the deed it did hateful enact. All in motion, as if were leaping, the suddenness an effort of some low thinking in the well lurking horror.

The warcries turned to panic, as the quickness of the canopy did bind them, the heavier amassed limbs taking their retributions in such a surge and wrap, did hold their victims struggling as weapons became muted and arrested. The canopy was no more, the roofs having connective trunks without thorns that lay about in evidence for their bounding claims.

The ends of these tendrils were course things that did much abrasive pains. As a constricting snake were these limbs indulgence in slowness. Few avoided their fates, finding refuge in buildings that were being pursued with the languid motions of other branches that did seek them, blind, yet sensing something.

As if a hand did wrap around the netting of the limbs, were they siezed as one. Those caught were hefted in a single sided tug of war, falling to the ground, as the dragging did begin. The maw of the well did bid them welcome, blackness within hungry for them. As if a wide net had been cast by a fishman, the horror did begin to haul what it had caught.

"There, him, sever a limb binding him," the Necroseer did direct, pointing with left hand that became empowered in violet energies as the weave did gain it's purpose. The sheathed blade nestled in it's scabbard, fueling such channellings, a coil of violet running within a nervous system of spiritual energies. The hand did point to one who had advanced far to the east, their hand still gripping axe out from a tight binding of vines and bark thorns, muffled complaint and desperate kicks firmly smothered.

Isambard did stride forward, sly of shoulders and quick of gait, a shroud of violet energies galloping in circle around himself and the comrades he had gained, a bounding entity that did patrol their presence as if were a wild horse or canine that did bounder. The knife held tight, ready to strike out, himself unsure if he had the way to defend himself completely without the violet whisps to aid him.

Making advance, he was now beside the constricted one as it was slowly dragged away, and bid his magics to make sluggish and unresponsive the impulses that drew the mass of vines to the well. As if rendering a synapse unresponsive, the constriction held locked, yet unmoving.

Isambard with clamped jaw did nod, eyes quick and attentive to the potentials that were growing in his peripherals, knowing time quick drawing thin as to their safety here. The horror had bodies to drag, and stragglers to locate who took shelters and fleeing. The knife stayed lodged within it's scabbard, waiting, hoping not to be drawn.

"Do it! Before-" Isambard did declare to newfound companion, for the first time his voice hoarse and full of strain as the magic did toil about, interupting his words with further effort and from further sound.

A growing cracking and creaking did begin to build from within the well, the sound like a stomach of barks and saps churning in what passed as hunger, swirling and rising within the well's depths.

Isambard's eyes locked to that maw, and he did swallow dryly as his faith he had in strangers underwent this ordeal.
 
Any piece, well that made it easier at least. If she didn't have to worry about a specific part of the vine, then the danger was at least slightly less. Slightly. Before there was a chance to ask more, the sound of charging drew her attention away from Isambard unconsciously taking as step forward only to stop at the man's command. Effie gritted her teeth together, she didn't like leaving the villagers or mercenaries to the fate of the horrible growth. At first, it was a calm. The attackers chopping into the vines, seemingly making headway against the enemy, but not for long.

Isambard led the way forward, a magical shield in place. It was a little blinding in her magical vision, that she had to release the spell, a hand out to Syr Barton to guide her down the road. The sounds of the attack assaulted her ears. Yells echoing in the night, the slither of vines against the cobblestones, the crackle of fire and oil leaping from the torches, the pounding of feet as they rushed the well.

Syr Barton's hand tightened around her arm, making her stop and wait. Her heart thrummed in her chest. The wait so much worse when she couldn't see what was happening. Then the screams happened. And she called back up her shroud vision, knowing she would need it now even if the brightness might cause a headache. A shouted command and Effie darted forward toward where finger pointed, a vine dragging a captured attacker toward the well. At least they might save one. A flash of frost zapped in front of her striking the vine stilled by magic. She could see the bright spot on the branch, where the magics coalesced. A pull of her sword, the steel singing from the sheath as she swung.

The metal rang out against the stones, the spot weakened by the ice shattered. The ground rumbled, like something was screaming, but a plant couldn't scream. At least not how the peoples of the world might scream, but the shaking made her feel that the monstrous plant was screaming. The vines whipped about in agitation and Effie bent down to grab the piece that remained as the formerly captive villager ran. It was then that she looked up. A large, thick vine swung in her direction. Retaliation.

"Catch!" She yelled out, throwing the cut piece of plant, just before the think trunk slapped her across the stomach sending her flying into the stone wall of one of the buildings around the outer part of the well. She managed to keep hold of her sword at least as she slipped down the wall. She coughed trying to catch the breath that the impact had forced from her lungs. Another vine swiped toward her and Effie weakly managed to block the vine from wrapping around her leg. She would not be dragged to that well to be some creature's snack.
 
The severed sample did reach Netherwisp's fingers, plucking at the air at once with reactions ample serving. As he did snatch it, his eyes did gain some brooding joy, his other hand instinctively going to the handle of his knife. Gleeful and confident, smugness in his plan delivered. A moment's indulgence, diligence returning to ruling him again as his will did catch the violet whims of his magic to roil abundant about them. Eyes flickered without wincing as he witnessed Euphemia being struck and the following collision.

His boots were already moving, hands sequestering the root within a sanctioned chamber of his overcoat as he did. Thrice layered with rudimentary anti-animations, iridescent and cold space did yawn and engulf the segment of the plant, laying torpor and preservation to the sap that did seethe.

His hands raised up, as if commanding an orchestra to demonstrate it's volume, his back turned to the entanglement of others. Eyes flaring with dominion, no hue and cry upon his lips. Violet waves of weaving plumes, billowing from the narrows of reality. What did outreach to grasp and strike him did shirk at the display, affording him space to provide assistance to his assistance.

The plumes were compelled in waves, in languid raises of the arms, as if directing timpani to crash out it's clamour. The limb that did ensnare did barter with itself, quick recoiling as it was beset by strange anti entropic will. The clouds did their work, and the ensnarement did release as further pressure was compelled by another stern gesture of the hand, violet awashing to ensure it did not gain confidence in it's hold.

Such dominion was not enforced across the square, this precious reprieve singular. All vials of greens that did induce some advantage had all broken upon it, and shuddering tortures were well into play. Axes were trembling as vines did shred and drag. The yawning well of blackness did welcome it's new stock to drain as mouths were smothered, attackers turned prisoner, morale breaking in those that still had feet upon the ground.

"Our task is performed, get up," Netherwhisp did say bluntly, as if it were tardiness somehow that was the cause of Euphemia being so grounded. No hand offered to help her rise. Just hands did rise to billow the weaving winds.

Another rush of violet, as Netherwhisp did turn upon his heel, spiralling the winds that did afford them space in pace with his coat that did widely wreathe him. His attentions were on their preservation. Or perhaps he deemed himself somehow above such labours to hoist one so downed. The knight was capable of standing again he did surmise, his eyes shimmering as he looked to the well and it's quick trapped victims.

Things were turning as he had predicted, their duty to the final victory performed. Practicalities demanded a ruthless vigil of one's expectations. A ruthless triage of resources to afford.

The Necroseer, so wreathed with curling violet smoke, did outstretch left hand, pointing a way to safety. Like a serpant did half of the smoke wreathe across the floor, marking the way and some small safety assured to those that had given him the sample. His right scribing runes into the air, cherry red script that soon became blackened words that withered into themselves like kindling, like shrinking cotton that burned itself to fuel another flame.

As he did so, a surge of circuitious vines did amass about the rooftops, and sank their barbs into the tiles, tunnelling and working their industry to some end.

At the center of the square Netherwhisp's eyes did peer through the transfixing words so aloft in the air, so hurriedly scribed, strain upon his neck as his mind did warp under strain and perception altered. The runic circle so rapid etched, quickly crumbling for his multitasking weave. But his eyes did sparkle with cherry reds, and his lips did curl in disgust at his brief insights.

The black well was gazed upon, however fleeting and incomplete by virtue of his runic window quick assembled. Like a fractured pane of glass, he did see the obsidian plant mind's nature in brief clouded shambles of meaning. The disgust stayed crooked upon his lips, his snarl of offense like a spasm of his own soul as it did find itself beset by foulness.

The runes did crumble, and Isambard shifted away, his sight obscured for peering so, his light headedness causing some sway in his boots that moved on with hurry. The clouds of violet did glide, ushering on himself, nudging as they did close the path of safety.

The roof, at this moment, was released from vine's thorns, the tiles and shingling sabotaged.

A great shower of tiles rushing to cascade where Isambard did company did escape, uneven in spread, heavy in weight, certain in their wave of ceramics, crashing in rolling rush of defense of the square so clearly the plant's own to command.

@Euphemia Martell
 
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